Season of the Sun (28 page)

Zarabeth rose, so relieved she could shout. Just as suddenly, she felt the ground tilting upward, felt herself swaying as if pushed by unseen hands. She felt light-headed. She collapsed where she stood.

As darkness closed over her mind, she heard Magnus shout. She wished she could speak to him, but there was only blackness now, shrouding her mind, and she succumbed to it.

“It must be exhaustion,” Harald said, looking down at his daughter-in-law, held in his son's arms. Magnus was sitting in his master's chair, which was in splendid isolation, Zarabeth in his lap.

“Aye, I should not have let her work so hard, not after her ordeal at Orm's hands.”

“Nonsense,” said Helgi. “Zarabeth is no frail little female. That is not it at all.”

“What is it, then, woman?”

Helgi smiled at her husband's intolerant tone. “You cannot bear not to know everything, can you, Harald?” she remarked as she patted Zarabeth's forehead with a wet cloth. “You men must always have the last word, the last right word about everything. Well, this time you don't.”

“Woman, I swear I will discipline you if you do not mind your tongue!”

Had Magnus not been so worried, he would have laughed. The thought of his father raising his hand to his wife was ludicrous. Helgi was smiling, knowing her husband as well as did Magnus.

“So what is wrong with the girl?” Harald finally asked. “Since you are the all-wise witch.”

“She is carrying Magnus' babe.”

Magnus nearly dropped Zarabeth. He stared at his mother. “She is with child?”

“Aye, I imagine so. When she awakens I will question her. There are very simple signs, you know, my son.”

He sat there clutching his unconscious wife to his chest, thinking back, trying to remember when last she had suffered her woman's bleeding. It was not too long before. It was when Lotti had drowned and Egill had disappeared. He stared up at his mother, who was smirking toward her husband.

He said slowly, “I am afraid.”

Helgi forgot her game with her husband. She knelt down beside Magnus' chair and gently began smoothing Zarabeth's thick hair from her face. The hair was soft and so very rich. She marveled at the color. Zarabeth's brows were darker, a rich brownish-red, and her lashes were thick and the same shade as her brows. Her cheekbones were well-sculptured, her skin smooth and very white. Helgi thought of a little girl who would somehow look like her son and Zarabeth also, and shook her head at herself. “Why? She is not like Dalla, Magnus. You have known her well. Is not her belly wide, her bones well-spaced? Her hips are not narrow.”

“I don't know. When I have looked at her, I had no thought of childbearing in my mind.”

His father laughed. “I can understand that. Married to this old woman here, though, it is difficult for me to remember such things.”

“Ha! There is more gray in your hair, old man, than in mine!”

Magnus looked toward the smoldering remains of his home, his mother's laughter in his ears. No matter
what seemed to happen in life, no matter how hateful, how sad, how awful things got, there always seemed to be something left, someone there, that made him want to continue. He lowered his head to Zarabeth's forehead. He had seen her, decided he had wanted her, and given her wishes little or no thought at all. He had always been confident, so sure of himself and what he was. He had given her a large dose of what it was he wished to have, never doubting that he would have her. If she had purposely betrayed him, well, he had deserved it. As for his own behavior, he knew all he had brought her was unhappiness and pain and humiliation.

Now his child grew in her womb. It was terrifying, and yet, at the same time, he felt incredible joy. He felt the wet of his tears on his face.

When Zarabeth awoke, it was to see her husband's face close to hers, and he was staring at her intently. “What happened to me? I don't understand. I'm lying on you and—”

“You fainted.”

It was odd, but she was lying in her husband's lap. Slowly she raised her hand and touched her fingers to his cheek. “Are these tears?”

“Aye.”

“But why? I was merely tired, mayhap overtired. Nothing more.” She grinned a bit unsteadily. “My life of late has been a bit exciting and just a bit unpredictable.”

He dipped his head down and kissed her lightly on her closed mouth. “Have you ever fainted before, Zarabeth?”

She shook her head. “I am not subject to such nonsense, Magnus.”

“That is what my mother said.”

“Why were you crying? Is there something wrong with me? . . . Oh, no, is Ragnar all right?”

“He is fine. Do you have wide hips?”

“If you will let me rise, I will try to crane my head about and look.”

“Hold still.” He pulled her a bit higher over his left arm. His right hand went to her belly and he gently splayed his fingers over her. Her hipbones were beyond his reach. “That is good, I suppose. I will tell my mother of my discovery and see what she thinks.”

She tried to push his hand away. “Magnus, there are people everywhere! Someone will see!”

“I am your husband. Let them look.”

“Let me up now. I feel fine, and it is silly for me to be sitting on you in this ridiculous chair when there is naught about but . . .” She had pulled herself abruptly upright as she had spoken. She stared at him, and suddenly her face was as white as her belly. “Oh,” she said, and fell back against his arm. Suddenly there was fear in her eyes. “What is wrong with me? I thought I would faint again, and I felt so dizzy . . .”

“You carry my babe.”

“. . . and light-headed. I felt light-headed before, but I believed I was merely hungry, that I was afraid of Orm and what would happen, merely . . .
What?
”

He grinned at her. “Nay, don't move, I don't want you to faint again. It scared all the wickedness out of me. That's right, just hold still. You carry my babe.”

She stared up at him, unable to grasp the reality of it. No, no, reality was Lotti drowning, reality was Egill disappearing, reality was lying on the ground naked with Orm over her . . . “I am with child? You are certain?”

“Aye.”

His eyes blazed with pleasure, the blue so vivid, so startling, that she couldn't look away, nor did she want to.

“I have never had a child before.”

She sounded lost and afraid and strangely bereft, and he didn't know which emotion to address first.

“Except Lotti. She was my child.”

Now he knew where to begin. “Zarabeth, we are not going to replace Lotti. She was special and she will always remain in our hearts and in our memories. Nothing can change what she was to us.” He drew a deep breath. “I cannot claim for certain that Egill is alive. It would be foolish of me to assume that I will find him and bring him back safely with me. If he, like Lotti, is dead, then both of the children will remain in our hearts. This child . . . we will pray that he reaches manhood and that he knows the health and happiness his parents will know.”

She leaned her cheek against his chest and he held her there, his face against the top of her head.

“What will happen?” she asked, her voice muffled against his tunic.

Magnus opened his mouth to speak, when there came a furious roar from behind him. He slewed about in his chair, clutching Zarabeth to him, to see Ragnar trying to rise, Eldrid attempting to hold him down. He was yelling and cursing, his arms flailing about. He struck Eldrid away and staggered to his feet, weaving where he stood.

Z
arabeth couldn't bear Ragnar's pain. If she could have held Ingunn's throat between her hands, she surely would have squeezed the life out of her. Ragnar was shuddering with pain and with the knowledge of what Ingunn had done to him, to Magnus, to Malek.

“Orm struck me himself,” he said over and over, even as he tried to pull free of Magnus. “She watched. She stood near him and watched. She told him that I had beaten her.
Beaten
her, Magnus!” Ragnar stopped, sucking in air, his face gray with pain, clammy with sweat, trying to get free and get hold of himself at the same time. “Then she told him not to kill me, she told him that I deserved to feel pain for what I had done to her. I deserved to look the fool.”

Eldrid was trying to soothe him, clucking at him, and he knocked away her hand.

“Lie down, Ragnar,” Magnus said. He didn't wait for his friend to respond. He simply picked him up and laid him flat on his back. “Now, you will stay there. What was your intent? To go after Orm now, this minute? Control your rage or use it to heal yourself. We will all go soon enough, and you will be with us. Nay, Ragnar, keep your fury under your tongue for the moment, and obey Eldrid. She doesn't want to see you underground. Nor do I.”

Magnus, satisfied that his friend would hold his peace, turned back to his wife. “How do you feel?”

In truth she felt weak and dizzy, and her stomach was pitching. “I'm all right,” she said instead, and tried for a sickly smile. Magnus merely shook his head at her, looked back at Ragnar, then lifted her in his arms. “The both of you will rest. I fear, though, that Ragnar will regain his bloom before you do. Nay, hush, Zarabeth. I want you happy and well.”

And that, she thought, settling down on a pile of blankets, her back propped against a tree, was that. She was asleep within minutes.

It was the oddest thing, Zarabeth thought later. The slave hut hadn't been touched by the flames. It was the only building left intact. More men arrived from Harald's farmstead, and rebuilding began. It was a slow process, for the old wood still smoldered, and several times men turning up stumps were burned when embers flamed up.

The sound of falling trees became a familiar one. The raw wood smelled sweet and soft. They could use only oak, and since there were few oak trees, treks to find them took time. Everything took time.

Helgi remained, helping Zarabeth oversee the cooking and the washing and all the other myriad chores. The men erected thatched huts, for Magnus knew it would rain and he wanted to protect Zarabeth.

Whilst the rebuilding went on, Magnus went quietly about refitting the
Sea Wind
and finishing repairs. Anger burned in his gut, and it grew each time he viewed the devastation of his home. His grandfather had selected the name Malek for his farmstead, but none knew where the name had come from, even his father. In truth, no one cared now, not even Magnus. Malek belonged to him, and it would remain his.

On the fourth day after the fire, Haftor Ingolfsson arrived, two of his sons with him.

They viewed the destroyed farmstead and stayed to help. They wanted to know if Magnus knew the
whereabouts of Orm. Magnus denied any knowledge. He lied smoothly, and Zarabeth kept her thoughts to herself. The Ingolfssons were huge men, fair-haired, well-knit, and fierce. Their anger at Orm was great. They wanted to find him badly.

“Why did you not tell them the truth?” Zarabeth asked Magnus one night when they lay side by side under the stars. The night was warm, so there was no need to retreat under the thatched hut roof.

“I want him myself.”

She accepted that. She sighed and pressed closer. She felt a soft pulsing in her belly. Magnus had not made love to her since that night of the attack and the fire.

“I also want you.”

She smiled and moved closer, pleasure filling her at his words.

“But I'm afraid that I will hurt you.”

She came up over him, her face but inches from his. She bit the end of his nose and grinned. “What happens to a man if he does not relieve himself?”

“Choose another way of saying it, Zarabeth.”

“Very well. If you do not spend your man's passion, what happens?”

“I become a bent old relic, my belly swells, my hair turns white, and my teeth rot out.”

Her laughter rang out, free and joyous. He stilled, satisfaction filling him at the sweet sound.

“Oh, Magnus, all that? Is that a white hair I see?” She was laughing, tugging at his blond hair, pulling at it, looking closely. “No, not a single white strand. Now, show me your teeth.”

He obligingly opened his mouth and she studied his white teeth, then kissed him. “I won't let you up to see if you are yet bending. Ah, husband, we must ensure that you do not become this old relic of a
man.” She ran her hand over his flat belly. “Ah, no swelling here as yet.”

“Nay, 'tis you who will do the belly-swelling.”

He kissed her, knowing that surely some of their people were close by, not yet asleep, yet he didn't care. He whispered in her ear, “If I take you, will you scream when your pleasure comes? Tell me truly, Zarabeth, shall I have to place my hand over your mouth?”

“Aye,” she said, and giggled. “It is your own fault, so cast not the blame on me when it is you who make me howl like a demented wolf.”

He shifted, gently shoving her flat on her back. He was over her now, looking down at her laughing face. “I believe the only way that I am to save myself from baiting and taunting by my men is to proceed thus. Nay, say nothing. I am your husband and I will do things the way I wish to.”

He kissed her until he felt the yielding deep within her, the acceptance of him not only as her husband but also as a man. He ignored the restless twisting of her body beneath him, holding her still beneath him until she punched him in the arm.

“All right,” he said, and kissed her again, only this time he caressed her breast with his hand, kneading her gently. “You're larger,” he said between kisses. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

He didn't, and she wanted him. But he refused to allow her to touch him, to go beyond the pace he himself had set.

Finally, when she tried to bite his tongue, he laughed, his voice deep and warm in her mouth, and eased his fingers up beneath her gown to caress her woman's flesh.

When he began to rhythmically caress her, she had no way to control herself, for the feelings were compelling, too full, quickly becoming uncontrollable. He
encouraged her as she keened softly, deep in her throat.

“You are doing well, Zarabeth. It delights me, this pleasure in you.”

And when she stiffened and arched taut as a bow, he deepened the pressure and took her cries into his mouth.

He relished each of the small quivers that followed her release. Gently he eased her onto her side away from him and came into her. He nibbled on her ear and she tried to twist about so she could kiss him some more, but he wouldn't allow it. “Hold still,” he said. “Let me come deeper . . . aye, that's it. Let me take you . . .”

Zarabeth pushed back hard against him and he groaned. He gripped her hips in his large hands, controlling the depth of his thrusts until it was too much for him and he buried his face in her hair, and she felt his moans to her very soul. This, she thought, was what was real. This was sharing and knowing and pleasing and being pleased. It was trust and belonging and it was wonderful.

 

It was Tostig who found it and brought it to Zarabeth. She was sewing, one of the few occupations the women deemed suitable for her. The day was hot and the sounds of building and men's laughter and cursing filled the air. She looked up at him and smiled. “Aye, Tostig, how go you?”

“I am fine, mistress, 'tis just that . . .” He stopped and stuck out the piece of cloth nearly a foot in length. It was a jagged strip of wool dyed a soft blue, faded now to almost gray from exposure to the elements.

She raised her face. “What is it? Where did you find it?”

“In amongst some leaves at the base of a pine tree,
just over there, on the outjutting land. We must have overlooked it when we were first searching for Egill.”

Zarabeth felt her heart thud, loud, slow strokes. Her fingers clutched the wool. She flew to her feet, yelling, “Magnus! Magnus!”

Tostig caught her arm. “It is the little girl's, isn't it, mistress?”

She looked at him, her eyes wild and vague. “Aye, it must be . . . Magnus!”

He heard her scream his name and bounded forward. He saw her standing beside Tostig, and she looked white and ill and she was weaving where she stood.

“Zarabeth!”

She whirled about at his voice, picked up her skirt, and ran toward him, shouting, “It is her, Magnus, it is!”

She drew up, weaving, and just as suddenly she turned utterly white and fell. Tostig tried to catch her, but he was off-balance and she bore him to the ground with her.

When she awoke, she was lying in her husband's lap, and he was sitting in his chair, now set beneath a pine tree. “It is, Magnus, it is hers, I know it! It wasn't in the water, it was on the land, at the base of a pine tree—”

“Mayhap, but you mustn't—”

“Did Tostig not tell you where he found it? It wasn't anywhere near the water. Lotti didn't drown!”

“You are certain the wool strip is from the gown Lotti was wearing that day?”

He saw that she wasn't completely certain. She was breathing hard, still too weak to sit up. He held her closer. “Easy, now, easy.”

“I think so. Eldrid would know. If it is Lotti's, she made it for her.”

“Did she not make gowns for the other little girls using the same wool?”

She had, and Zarabeth was forced to nod.

“We will see. Bring her here.”

Eldrid did know. None of the wool used in the gowns was exactly the same. She looked at the strip of wool, clapped her hands to her face, and shrieked.

Zarabeth looked up at Magnus' grim face. “Where is she? In the Danelaw with Egill? Orm took them both, didn't he? Do you think Orm saved her? Do you think he was watching and pulled her from the water? Or perhaps Egill saved her and Orm captured both of them over there, on the outjutting land, out of the sight of you or your men. But why did he leave that rude drawing showing Egill, and nothing to show Lotti? Why?”

The Viking children amused her, the boy so protective of the little girl, yet proud and stolid, both of them. It was rare that they spoke, and when one of them did, it was usually the boy, Egill. The little girl spoke only the boy's name. That single word seemed to convey a wealth of meaning to him, all depending on the tone and lilt of her voice. They made quaint signs to each other, their own private language, and Cecilia thought it clever. If they spoke of her, well, she was beautiful, gentle and kind to them, so their opinion of her could not be bad.

Guthrum had presented them to her on her twentieth birthday, smiling as he had said, “For my beautiful Cecilia, two children to do your bidding as I do, only they are small and won't intrude whilst they carry out your wishes.”

She had expected jewels and had pouted for two days until she realized that her uncle and lover, also
the king of the Danelaw, had provided her with a very efficient means of communicating with him whenever she wished to see him. No one paid attention to a little boy or to a little girl, particularly to slaves. One or the other would carry a token of affection or a message to the king's chambers if need be, and no one thought about it, even Guthrum's wife, that jealous bitch, Sigurd.

Cecilia sighed. She was bored. Guthrum should have already arrived, but he hadn't yet come. He was likely closeted with his men, laughing and crowing at the news of more lightning raids into King Alfred's Wessex. That, or he was likely immersed in strategies for Alfred's final defeat, for the Saxon king had forced a treaty on him some years before and also forced him to mouth prayers to the Christian God. Aye, when need be, Guthrum could be as pious as one of Alfred's bishops.

Cecilia picked up a honeyed almond and ate just a part of it. She smiled. It was just like Guthrum. He always was fond of nibbling at the edges of the English kingdom, always rubbing his age-spotted hands together at the huge revenues coming into his coffers.

Of course, he always denied any knowledge of raids into King Alfred's lands when angry messages arrived from Alfred. He would shake his head, look mournful, and feign distress and send the messenger on his way, his palm filled with silver coin.

Cecilia looked again at the children. She frowned this time. 'Twas a very handsome Viking named Orm Ottarsson who had presented Guthrum with the boy and girl, along with more silver coins than Cecilia could count, in return for removing a Saxon family from rich farmlands on the River Thurlow, lands he wanted for himself. She'd seen the man, and found herself impressed with his arrogance and his sleekness. She thought herself a clever woman to his clever man,
and thus tried to seek him out. But he had left York to return to Norway. It was depressing, but Cecilia knew that he would return, and when he did, why, then she would see.